


painting with light

by trasshboat



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Art Museum AU, M/M, hinata is an art student, kageyama is a security guard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6284956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trasshboat/pseuds/trasshboat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sudden shock of orange at the edge of his periphery pulls him out of his thoughts and puts him on high alert. As he straightens his back, he swears can feel an imminent headache approaching. The short man who just bounded into the room spells trouble, he’s sure, if the easel and canvas the man carries in his arms are anything to go by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	painting with light

A frown is already creeping onto Kageyama’s face as he leaves his supervisor’s office.

His supervisor, Sawamura Daichi, is only a few years older than Kageyama, but he’s a head security officer. He’s not a bad guy; in fact, he often overlooks Kageyama’s misdeeds in favor of giving him minor slaps on the wrist. The laugh lines framing Sawamura’s deep-set brown eyes crinkle when he smiles, and even his reprimanding words are said with a contradictory lightness. 

Thinking of his co-worker’s good-humored scolding, Kageyama Tobio scowls even more deeply. His black eyebrows settle evenly over dark blue eyes, and his mouth sets into a frown. Somehow, he was blamed once again for making a child cry. The kid in question had been recklessly romping around the room before Kageyama, through clenched teeth, asked the child to stop. The security guard had displayed an unusual amount of self-control in explaining the “No running” rule to the kid without raising his voice, so he really didn’t understand why the child’s tears were his fault. He was only doing his job.

He grumbles incoherently as he makes his way back to his post, fixing his glare on the white wall across the room.

It’s a busy Thursday night at the Art Institute of Chicago. Illinois residents have free admission every Thursday evening, making these shifts the most unbearable. The exhibit he is currently stationed in is in a large, open space, with wide windows that allow rays of natural light to pool in the room as people stream in and out, chattering mindlessly as they go. This exhibit showcases modern art pieces; to Kageyama, all of the art in this room looks like a jumble of random geometric shapes haphazardly layered on top of each other. At least with portraits and sculptures, he reasons, there are identifiable forms and themes. But he’s sure that modern art requires no skill, and is confident that even he could produce a modern piece worthy of the Art Institute.

Kageyama’s been working here for a while, and he’s been stationed in every exhibit; from the statues, pottery, and portraits displayed in the Chinese, Japanese, and Korean Art Wing, to the Thorne Miniature Rooms in the basement, he’s seen everything at least a dozen times. Even he can admit that the miniature rooms are amazing; each miniature room represents the style of a unique time period and place, and he always finds something new whenever he looks into one of them. Other than that, however, most of the art gets a little mundane.

He has to stifle yawns as he stands at the entrance of the modern art exhibit; there are only so many times he can stare at the artwork around the room before he gets frustrated by how pointless it all seems. And though he’d rather be doing anything else, anywhere else, the fact of the matter is that, outside of work, he really has nothing to do and nowhere to be.

There’s a dull pain in his back from standing for hours, a sharper pain creeping its way into his knee, and his uniform is chafing at his neck. His mood sours.

Kageyama often finds himself wondering what he’s doing, working as a security guard in an esteemed art museum. He doesn’t have any fondness for art, and he doesn’t understand why people try so hard to extrapolate meaning from a mess of colors and lines. As far as he’s concerned, all there is to art is what you can take at face-value. 

At twenty-five years of age, Kageyama tends to focus on what’s directly in front of him― his bills and how he’s going to pay them, what he’s going to have for dinner that night, how he can make it through his shift without yelling at a toddler for getting too excited by the ear sculpture in the center of the room.

“No stepping within a foot of the artwork,” he says, monotone, to an old woman leaning towards a painting to get a better look.

Kageyama wasn’t always such a cynic. There was once a time that he had boundless ambition, a goal that drove him forward and against all that tried to push back at him. The volleyball in his hands held his future. His sights had been set on playing on the national team, and with his abilities as a setter, his path was paved clearly before him. But a knee injury ripped his dream away from him, and the path before him crumbled.

Now, his only concern lies in collecting paychecks and making sure nothing gets broken on his shift.

A sudden shock of orange at the edge of his periphery pulls him out of his thoughts and puts him on high alert. As he straightens his back, he swears he can feel an imminent headache approaching. The short man who just bounded into the room spells trouble, he’s sure, if the easel and canvas the man carries in his arms are anything to go by.

The man starts setting up the easel directly in front of a painting, energy radiating off of his every move, and Kageyama can only watch in disbelief. Does he really not see how much trouble he’s causing? Probably not; the guy’s humming to himself, oblivious to the dirty looks everyone --especially Kageyama-- is giving him. 

Indignant, Kageyama stalks up behind the man. “Hey, idiot, no easels allowed. You’re blocking the way,” Kageyama says, professionalism forgotten, and places a hand on the man’s shoulder.

The man starts, spinning around to face Kageyama, his brown eyes wide in shock and confusion. Kageyama notes the logo of a local college on the guy’s hoodie and takes in his rosy cheeks and raised eyebrows. His hair’s fitting of someone living in the Windy City, Kageyama thinks absently. The orange nest on top of his head sticks out in all directions in a mess of untamable whorls.

Kageyama realizes he’s been staring for too long when the man’s surprise is replaced with a fabricated look of defiance. “W-what, do you want to fight or something?” he pipes up, balling up his shaking fists and assuming a fighting stance. 

“I-what?” Kageyama asks after a beat of silence. It takes him another second to collect his thoughts. “I’m with security. You’re not allowed to set up easels in the gallery. You’re being a nuisance.” He pointed at the easel and gestured at the people skirting around it. “And you need to go.”

The man visibly deflates at Kageyama’s words, seeming to concede. But Kageyama doesn’t have the chance to feel relieved, as the man suddenly shoots up again and gives him an imploring look. “My name is Hinata Shouyou, I’m a graduate art student, and I really need to paint here because--” Hinata takes a deep breath before continuing, “I’m using this piece for inspiration and it’s so amazing that looking at a digital picture didn’t do it justice and if I don’t get to paint while looking at it in person I’ll never finish my piece and I’ll fail out of school and never achieve my dreams and might end up working some boring desk job or as a security officer which would be _awf_ -”

“God, just shut up!” Kageyama interrupts, his patience all but gone. Hinata freezes on the spot, holding his breath. Kageyama shoots him a sharp look and then turns his gaze to the piece. All he can see is a mess of geometric shapes, curving lines, and bright colors. It kind of hurts his head. But he can’t help but wonder exactly what this annoying art student sees in it. “What’s so special about it, anyway?” he mutters, looking at the plaque mounted beside the piece. It reads, “ _Movements_ , by Marsden Hartley.”

Hinata perks up at Kageyama’s question, and Kageyama immediately regrets that he asked. “What _isn’t_ special about it! The rhythm of the piece is so alive and the color contrasts almost dance together, not to mention the different kinds of lines move so fluidly and work with and against each other to generate such a cool movement! It breathes life and there’s so much going on, each part has its own personality and it’s like watching a group of people talking to each other or hanging out at a party, you know?” The longer he speaks, the louder and more animated Hinata becomes, flailing his arms this way and that and jumping a little every now and again. By the end of his passionate analysis, his smile is wider and brighter than ever.

Kageyama, on the other hand, is more confused than ever. Hinata might as well have been speaking in a foreign language-- rhythm, movement, personality? How is it possible for a an inanimate object have so much life? 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Kageyama speaks plainly; he doesn’t have any of Hinata’s flowery words. “There’s no way you see all of that in something like that,” he says, matter-of-factly.

Hinata’s smile burns out. He looks frustrated, and his next words come out as a shout, “It’s not my fault you’re too stupid to see it! I guess art is too complex for you!” His face is red, and Kageyama supposes he hit a nerve, though he remains unapologetic.

Kageyama is about to retort with equal passion, but he feels a hand on his shoulder just as he opens his mouth to speak. 

Sawamura is smiling a fatherly grin at the two of them, though his grip tightens slightly on Kageyama’s shoulder as he speaks. “Kageyama, I think it’s about time for your break. Why don’t you go cool down for a bit?”

Kageyama wants to retaliate against Hinata, but he knows better than to test Sawamura when he’s pulled out that smile of his. Kageyama shrugs, turns away, and without another look in Hinata’s direction, exists the exhibit and heads outside for his break.

Hinata Shouyou.

He seems like the kind of person who will always be awed by the Art Institute’s sweeping staircases and marble columns regardless of how many times he’s already seen them. He seems like someone who would look at a piece of art and come up with some baseless claim about the artist’s intended message. In short, he seems like an idiot. 

But for some reason, Kageyama can’t stop thinking about him. And that really, _really_ pisses him off.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for taking the time to read this! this is my first time posting something on ao3 and actually my first time writing a fic so i'm kind of nervous! i want to continue this but i need to figure out how to do it first lmao also if i continue it, this chapter is gonna have to undergo some major major edits oopsie
> 
> i think it might be a little weird that this takes place in chicago but i really love the art institute! maybe i'll edit it to be more vague at some point but idk for now it stays  
> EDIT: wow someone drew art for this fic and it's gorgeous and i'm so happy? check out this lovely human's work omg https://www.instagram.com/p/BDYp5Z9QDEN/


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